


Portrait of a Lady Detective

by mldrgrl



Series: Adventures of The Lady Detective and The Writer [4]
Category: Californication (TV), The Fall (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 08:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8439268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: Immediately following the end of the series The Fall, Stella Gibson makes good on her promise to Hank in Reconnect and calls him back.Also uses the following tumblr prompts:You say you don’t want to, but I know you’re lyingI’m scared and I don’t want to be aloneYou’re okay, I promise





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [一個女警探的肖像](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13448751) by [amamitouko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amamitouko/pseuds/amamitouko)



 

Stella set her wine glass down on the counter and traced her finger over the rim.  Normally, she was not bothered by solitude, but she felt different.  She felt unsteady.  After another sip of wine, she went to the entryway to fish her phone out of her jacket and took it back with her to the kitchen.  Calling him was a decision she’d made before she’d even gotten on the plane in Belfast, but suddenly she was having second thoughts.

 

Making the call would force her to acknowledge certain things about herself and about him.  It would require commitment on her part to following through with things she told herself she would never do - things she was wrong to promise herself in the first place.  It would be difficult.  It would require a leap of faith.

 

Before she could talk herself out of what she’d already spent hours talking herself into, she picked up the phone and dialed his number.  He picked up on the third ring in the casual, easy tone she liked.

 

“Been thinking about you, Sherlock,” he said.

 

“I’ve been thinking about you too, Watson,” she answered.

 

“Any particular thoughts you’d like to share?”

 

“I’m wondering what you would do if I asked you to be on the next flight to London.”

 

“That would have to depend upon whether or not you’ll be there.”

 

“I’m here.”

 

“Then consider me already in a cab on the way to JFK.”

 

She took a sip of her wine, relaxing a little.  “Call or text with your flight details,” she said.  “I’ll have a car waiting for you.”

 

“I look forward to it.  I’ve missed you, Stella.”

 

Her lips were parted on the glass to take another sip and she had to lower the glass back to the counter as her hand started to shake.

 

“I’ve missed you as well, Hank.”

 

She heard the click of disconnection and she put the phone on the counter and took a deep breath.  The easy part was over.  For the rest, she would have to wait.

 

She stayed up all night.  Not intentionally, but the hours just seemed to slip by as she sat at the counter and lost herself in thought.  He hadn’t been joking when he said he’d take the first flight.  No more than an hour after their call, he’d texted his flight info and was already at the airport.  His flight arrived at Heathrow at 4am.  It was now just past 4:30 and she heard a car idling outside.

 

It was dark and foggy outside, but she could see him in lamplight, tipping the driver and hoisting a satchel over his shoulder.  She waited at the door as he waded through the mist and up the front stairs to reach her.  He dropped his bag inside the entryway and slid his hands around her waist as he pressed her against the closed door.  She could feel the cold on him and it made her shiver, but she didn’t want him to let her go.

 

“Do I want to see the other guy?” he asked, gently touching the right side of her chin and turning her cheek to inspect her face.

  
“He’s dead,” she answered, flatly, lifting her chin away from his fingers and looking up at him.

 

He kissed the undamaged side of her face from her brow to her neck as he squeezed her backside and kneaded the backs of her thighs.  She closed her eyes for the first time in what felt like days and turned her body over to him.

 

When he stopped, she realized how tired she was when she struggled to open her eyes.  His hands were on her waist, holding her sagging body up against the door.

 

“I could use a nap,” he said.  “What about you?”

 

She nodded and without asking for permission, he scooped her up into his arms like she was made of feathers.  Any other time and any other man, she would have been quite angry, but she closed her arms around his neck and guided him with soft, succinct directions.  Upstairs.  End of the hall.  Right door.

 

He took off his leather jacket after he lay her down on the bed.  She watched him through the slit in her eyes as he searched her drawers for sleepwear and threw what he found over his shoulder onto the bed.  She was surprised he left the silk and lace where it was and went for flannel pants, a cotton shirt, and fuzzy socks.

 

She dozed lightly, floating on the brink of sleep as he removed her slacks and traded them for soft flannel.  He struggled with her blouse and her heavy limbs and his fingers skimmed over the purple blush on her ribs where Spector had kicked her before he unhooked her bra.  She opened her eyes enough to pluck at the cuff of his t-shirt.

 

“I like what you’re wearing,” she said, the low, gravelly tone of her voice almost unrecognizable even to her.

 

Hank peeled the shirt off and put it onto her.  It was still cool from the outside, but smelled like him.  She closed her eyes again and felt him tug the fuzzy socks onto her feet.  She heard his pants hit the chair by the window, the click of the lamp being shut off, and then he was sliding into bed beside her.  She used the little energy she had left to turn onto her right side and lean back against him.

 

Stella awoke with a deep breath and the rapid blinking of her eyes.  The left side of her ribs burned softly and her temple and cheek ached with pain.  The last painkiller she took was before her flight home and that was at least twelve hours ago, if not longer.  The clock was on the other side of the bed and she had no idea what time it was.  The room was dim, but it got barely any light on a sunny day, offering no clue as to how long she’d been asleep.  It could just as easily be mid-morning or well into the afternoon.

 

Hank’s arm was around her hip and his body was curled in such a way that his head rested between her shoulder blades and his bent knees touched her heels.  She wanted to feel more of him, but it was becoming obvious to her that now that she’d finally allowed her mind and body to rest, she was feeling the full effect of having been used as a punching bag by a very strong, angry man.

 

She ran her hand down Hank’s forearm and found his hand, pushing her fingers between his and squeezing with as much strength that wouldn’t cause her more achiness.  “Hank,” she said, quietly.

 

He rubbed his face against her back as he stirred and slowly unfolded his body so that his full length was against her.  She closed her eyes in appreciation, but the ache in her face would not let her enjoy it.

 

“Would you mind terribly,” she said, “running downstairs to my bag, and retrieving a bottle of painkillers from the pocket inside.”

 

“Mmhm,” he murmured, and then he was sliding away from her and she missed his heat.

 

He returned a few minutes later with the bottle of pills and a glass of water.  She struggled to push herself up onto her hip and he put his arm around her shoulders so she could lean against him as she swallowed the medication down.  He put the glass of water on her nightstand with the pills and lay her back down.

 

“What time is it?” she asked.

 

“Little after eleven.”  He crawled back into bed in front of her this time and she carefully moved herself against his side and into the crook of his arm to wait for the pain to subside.

 

The silence was her favorite part of her home.  She was instantly taken in by how quiet the walk-through was when she was house hunting and that alone had compelled her to put in her offer.  She was especially grateful for it in this moment where she could lie still and listen to the breathing of the man beside her and hear the scrape of his skin against hers as he ran a soothing hand up and down her arm.  She remembered lying in his bed with him listening to the ocean and thinking of the peace she’d felt that weekend.

 

Her experiences over the last few days had given her a lot to think about.  Not just regarding the investigation, but personal introspection.  There were things she suddenly longed to have heard and when she thought about it, she wanted them heard by him.  She thinks it was the moment when the friendly, well-meaning doctor was sat at her bedside and asked if she had many friends.  Or maybe it was when she was confronted with the disturbing notion that Spector reveled in the sound of her voice calling him back from the dead.  She had to ask herself, who would notice if she were gone? 

 

The tears came as a surprise to her.  So rarely did she allow herself to cry and she’d learned so long ago how to have absolute control of her emotions.  She had to in her line of work.  Dramatics never did anyone any good.

 

“Are you in pain?” Hank asked, running the back of his hand very lightly along her damaged cheek.

 

Her lips trembled and her chin wobbled as the tears rolled freely from her eyes.  “No,” she managed.  “Not physically.”

 

“What can I do?” he asked.

 

“Be still with me.”

 

“Okay.  Take your time.”

 

She recovered quickly despite making no effort to reign in her emotions.  As she saw it, it was an opportunity to cleanse and begin anew.  She did feel better at the end of it, still tired and achy, but no longer as mentally exhausted as she’d been the last few days.

 

“Do you regret that I asked you here?” she asked.

 

“Hell no,” he answered.

 

“I should have given you fair warning about my condition.”  She took a moment to run her fingertip along the upper dip between his abdominal muscles.  “I may not be able to offer you much in the way of physical satisfaction just now.”

 

“Are you inferring I only came here for your body?”

 

“There hasn’t been much else between us.”

 

“Never even crossed my mind?”

 

“Really?” she asked, eyeing the bulge in his jockey shorts as she slid her hand further down his abdomen.

 

Hank caught her hand before it got too far and put it up on his chest.  “Let’s not go around taunting the little guy though.”

 

“You say you don’t want to, but I know you’re lying.”

 

“Well, yeah, of course I want to.  But...fuck, Stella.  Can I make a confession to you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I read about your case.”

 

“How?”

 

“There’s a bookshop I hang out at in New York.  There’s always international newspapers laying around.  I saw your picture on one and I looked into it.  I wanted to call you every day.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I wanted to make sure you were okay.  It sounded dangerous.  If I regret anything it’s that I didn’t call and I wasn’t here sooner.”

 

Stella very much wished she could kiss him in that moment.  She would normally find that sort of caveman attitude to be archaic and offensive, but his sincerity was touching.  She’d wanted to know what it felt like to have someone care about her, and he gave her that.  It was a nice, warm feeling.

 

“Stella?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Why  _ did _ you call me if you thought I’d only want to be here for a sex-filled weekend of debauchery.”

 

“To be fair, I never put debauchery on the table.”

 

“Scratch debauchery, insert carnal indulgences.”

 

Stella stared at the shadow in the corner of the room.  “I’m scared and I don’t want to be alone.”

 

“What are you scared of?”

 

“Being alone, I suppose.”

 

“I know what you mean.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“Yeah.  I’m terrified of being alone.  Bad shit seems to happen when I’m alone.”

 

She had gathered as much from pieces of his last book that she read.  She read all his books, but the last one blurred the lines of autobiographical.  His protagonist resembled the Hank she knew and the lady he was preoccupied with...well, she felt very close to the story.

 

“May I ask you something?” she said.

 

“Of course.”

 

“You put personal things down on paper, and you choose to give your words to other people, but what about the words you choose not to share?  Have you ever been violated in that way?”

 

“That’s an interesting question.  Have you?”

 

“A diary of mine was stolen in the course of the case you read about.  It was later turned into evidence.  They were private thoughts, personal thoughts I now have no idea how many people have read without permission.”

 

“Ouch,” he whispered, playing with the curled ends of her hair.  “I have to give express permission for what I write to be printed, so I’m responsible for it once it reaches the masses.  I once received a review that said ‘Moody’s books are the equivalent of a prepubescent boy officially discovering masturbation and lacking in the self-control to know when to stop.’  So, at least your diary isn’t facing critical review from LA Weekly.”

 

“Was that very hurtful?”

 

“It was very interesting.  Mostly because I might be inclined to agree.”

 

Stella tipped her head up and Hank looked down at her with a smile.  He twirled her hair around his fingers and she angled her head back down.  Her hand wandered over his chest and he covered it with his, stroking his thumb along the side of hers.

 

“I would like to share something with you that’s within my power to control,” she said.

 

“I would love it if you shared something with me.”

 

“My father died when I was fourteen.  We were very close.  It came after a prolonged illness, yet it was still a shock.  I’ve spent the rest of my life looking for my father in the men I’ve involved myself with.  Older men.  Powerful men.  Unavailable men.  Ones I’ve left before they had the opportunity to leave me.”

 

“You sound like a well-layered, deep and interesting character.”

 

“No, I sound like a walking cliche.  I went through all those things you’ve read about in textbooks.”

 

“You call it cliche, others may call it normal.”

 

“What it was, was damaging.  I was fully aware of how much harm I was causing, but I told myself that if no one was hurt except for me, it didn’t matter.”

 

Hank brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist.  She wondered if he’d seen the faint scars on the inside of her thighs from her teenage years of self-abuse.  Probably not.  They were no longer the prominent reminders they once were, but she knew where to look.  She would have gladly shown Katie her markings if she could, but mental scars were invisible and physical ones fade over time.

 

“Other people were hurt though,” she said. “I have to acknowledge that I hurt people. Mostly unintentionally, but not always.”

 

Her thoughts drifted to Jim Burns, to the now deceased James Olson, and to Tom Anderson. Jim’s family had suffered for her involvement with him, though he was equally at fault for that. Her actions had possibly, inadvertently gotten Olson killed and Anderson almost suffered the same fate. There would be repercussions in all their lives, surely.

 

“You broke a pattern in me,” Stella said.  “I stopped looking for my father and instead starting looking for you.”

 

“Before or after you found me in LA?”

 

“Both before and after.  It didn’t stop the pattern of hurt, however.”

 

“Well, I’m here, and you don’t have to go looking any further.”

 

“We don’t know each other past a night in a hotel and a weekend in your bed.”

 

“And I haven’t stopped thinking of you since.”

 

“I need you to keep in mind that the leopard may not be able to change her spots.”

 

“William Faulkner once said, ‘ you cannot swim for new horizons until you have courage to lose sight of the shore .’”

 

Stella closed her eyes and breathed deeply.  “Will you just put your arms around me right now and make me forget who I am for a little while?”

 

“I happen to like who you are, Sherlock.”  He turned his body slightly and hesitated over the placement of his arm and hand.  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

“Your quotable Mr. Faulkner also said, ‘given the choice between the experience of pain and nothing, I would choose pain.”  She placed his arm low on her hip and tucked her head under his chin.  “You’re okay, I promise.”

 

The End

  
  



End file.
